


crawl inside this second skin

by jacyevans



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Twins, Gen, Lydia and Stiles are Siblings, Lydia and Stiles are Twins, Platonic Soulmates, Psychic Bond, Soul Bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-16
Updated: 2014-03-16
Packaged: 2018-01-15 21:36:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1320028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jacyevans/pseuds/jacyevans
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles could find Lydia in a room full of people, could follow the beat of his twin sister’s heart pulsing in his own chest, an invisible thread keeping them connected. It’s some sixth sense not even Lydia can explain, but that neither of them have ever questioned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	crawl inside this second skin

When Stiles is three, Lydia breaks her wrist on the monkey bars.

He starts to cry from the sandbox all the way across the playground, arm held tight across his chest. Years later, his mother will say he was too young to remember that day, but he does, the details burned into his memory: a knife-sharp pain in his arm, the grit of sand in his eyes, Lydia’s pale, tear-stained face peeking out from behind his father’s arms.

\--

Stiles could find Lydia in a room full of people, could follow the beat of his twin sister’s heart pulsing in his own chest, an invisible thread keeping them connected. It’s some sixth sense not even Lydia can explain, but that neither of them have ever questioned. 

Their father does, though, watching the two of them curled around each other in Stiles’ racecar bed. Stiles wakes up with his parents standing over him, Lydia pressed firmly against his side, face mushed against his shoulder. She’s fast asleep, radiating warmth and comfort and home. Her dreams flash behind his eyelids: riding a pink bicycle through the park down the street from their house, Stiles chasing her while she laughs, never letting him catch up.

“I just don’t understand,” John whispers, and he could be referring to any of dozens of incidences: Stiles wakes up crying after a nightmare, and Lydia is there before his parents take a step out of bed. Sometimes, Lydia will laugh at absolutely nothing, but Stiles will grin like he’s told the world’s most amusing joke and only Lydia understands the punchline. They don’t just finish each other’s sentences, but speak in tandem, grinning at each other like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Claudia wraps a hand around John’s arm. “Maybe we’re not meant to,” she says, just as softly, and she tugs him from the room. Stiles rolls over, arms thrown around Lydia’s waist. He falls to sleep listening to the steady beat of her heart.

\--

“I think there’s something wrong with mom,” Lydia says, voice hushed. The confession echoes across the space between them, spurred by doctor’s appointment after doctor’s appointment, their mother’s face growing pale, lines of stress around her mouth even when she smiles.

Stiles closes his eyes and sees the memory through Lydia’s eyes: Their father standing on one side of the coffee table, their mother sitting on the couch. 

_I don’t lie to my kids, John,_ Claudia says, and John drags his hand over his face, shoulders shaking. Claudia gets to her feet, wraps her arms around his shoulders.

Stiles breaks the connection, chest heaving. The image of his father crying into his mother’s chest will be burned into his eyelids for the rest of his life. “I know,” he says, and he huddles closer, tucking his head under Lydia’s chin.

Their parents sit them down in the kitchen the next morning, Stiles clasping tight to Lydia’s hand under the table. Stiles doesn’t know what cancer is, exactly, but Lydia bites her lip, tiny shoulders shaking. Her sorrow weighs Stiles down like a lead balloon as Claudia gathers them into her arms.

\--

Stiles meets Scott at the hospital.

Stiles spins around in his seat, bored out of his skull. Lydia is sitting in the chair next to the bed, braiding their mother’s hair. She doesn’t look up from her task, but her annoyance burns through him, loud and clear.

Claudia reaches into the bag beside her bed and hands a couple of dollars to Stiles with a smile. “Why don’t you ask Melissa about those vending machines,” she says, and he jumps to his feet, happy to burn off the excess energy. 

There’s a boy about his age sitting at the nurse’s station, kicking his feet and grumbling down at a handheld game. Stiles doesn’t recognize him, but when he mentions the vending machines, Melissa whispers something in the boy’s ear.

“Scott will show you where they are,” she says, and the boy jumps out of his seat, grinning at Stiles. He takes a step forward, and Melissa clears her throat. She holds out her hand. Scott sighs, handing over the game.

“Thank you. Now go away,” she says, shooing them off.

Stiles races Scott down the hall, laughing as they dodge doctors and nurses and various trays of medical instruments. Scott stops, winded, tugging an inhaler out of his pocket and taking a couple of puffs, but he’s grinning as he falls into one of the seats next to the vending machines. 

Stiles digs the money out of his pocket, choosing Reeses for himself and grabbing another package for Lydia. He sits on the chairs next to Scott and rips open the package, offering Scott the second Reeses cup. 

Stiles talks a mile a minute, bouncing from topic to topic at breakneck speed. Scott talks less than he does, but he listens to every word Stiles says with rapt attention, the way no one but Lydia or his parents has ever done. 

Stiles starts hanging out with Scott more often, sitting with him behind the desk at the nurse’s station, reading comics with him on the floor in the waiting room. Lydia is there, an ever-present force at the back of his mind, poking and prodding until he bats at the back of his head with a glare. 

_“Lydia,”_ he hisses, and he looks up when Lydia walks down the hall, heart beating fast in her haste. Stiles yelps as she grabs his arm and tows him back towards their mother’s room. A thread of anxiety goes up like a flare, jealousy and anger so heavy and stifling, Stiles chokes. 

He waits until they round the corner to throw his arms around her shoulders, giving her as big of a hug as he can manage. “I couldn’t ever replace you, Lyds,” he whispers. Annoyance flickers at the back of his mind, and he can’t help but grin.

“Don’t call me Lyds,” she snaps, but she buries her face in his shirt, stiffness leaching out of her shoulders. She trails Stiles to the waiting room, ignoring Scott’s raised eyebrow as she settles into one of the chairs and tugs a book out of her bag, a leather-bound, encyclopaedic looking thing that Stiles is almost certain most college students couldn’t even understand.

“Wow,” Scott says; he puts down his comic book, eyes wide. “You’re really smart.”

Lydia rolls her eyes. “Of course I am,” she says, haughty as usual, but there’s a flush across her cheeks, pleasure thrumming under Stiles’ skin. He grins at Scott, because seriously, _best bro ever._

\--

The day their mother dies, there’s a car crash on the highway, head-on collision with a teenage girl stuck in the front seat. John calls from the crash site and tells Melissa that he’ll be there as soon as he can manage.

By the time he gets to the hospital, Melissa is sitting in the waiting room with her arm around Lydia’s shaking shoulders. Lydia holds tightly to Stiles’ hand; she hasn’t let go since they stood at Claudia’s bedside. Stiles drops his head to John’s shoulder, vibrating with the force of his father’s sobs.

After the funeral, Stiles doesn’t speak for weeks. He ignores every attempt his father makes at conversation, wincing when he slams his glass down against the table in his frustration. Stiles doesn’t know how to explain that he can’t speak even though he wants to, can’t remember how to force the words past his lips.

Lydia hears everything he doesn’t say, his grief like an open, seeping wound. He sleeps in her bed every night, clinging tightly to her shirt.

John drinks and drinks and _drinks,_ one of the deputies carrying him through the door at all hours. Stiles and Lydia practically move into the McCall house. Melissa puts on a brave face, but Stiles hears her and Scott’s father fighting at night when they think the three of them are already asleep.

Scott curls up on the big, green chair in the corner of his room, eyes clenched shut. The sound of something breaking makes all three of them jump, just before the front door slams and a car skids out of the driveway. Stiles and Lydia exchange a glance, and Stiles nods, shuffling over to Scott and tugging him to his feet. The bed is barely big enough for him and Lydia, but they make do, curling around each other in the dark.

Lydia goes home and pours all the whiskey down the sink. Stiles jimmies open the lock on the liquor cabinet, and she gets rid of all of those bottles, too.

She stands defiant in the face of their father’s anger, though her fear trembles in Stiles’ chest. She looks so much like their mother in that moment that Stiles’ breath catches; Lydia’s pulse speeds up to match, until they’re both a roiling mass of panic standing in the kitchen.

Stiles doesn’t understand what’s happening. His heart races, beating so hard, he swears it will literally jump out of his chest. His vision goes hazy and dark at the edges, limbs tingling like they’re falling asleep, and he _can’t breathe._

Lydia takes his face between her palms. He flinches away from the contact, scurries back against the wall, and bursts into tears, loud, messy, wracking sobs that make his chest ache. John tugs both of them towards him, tucking them under his chin, apologizing over and over and over until his voice goes hoarse and Stiles feels like he can breathe again.

The next morning, John is fully sober for the first time in weeks, nursing a cup of coffee at the kitchen table. Stiles says, “Hi Dad,” forces the words out, and John’s smile and Lydia’s grin are worth the pain that blooms in his throat.

\--

Stiles shoots up almost a foot in a year; he’s gangly and thin and always tripping over his too-long limbs. Scott takes to walking several steps in front of him and slightly to the side to make sure he doesn’t get pulled down with him.

Lydia catches the attention of every boy in the county, to the point where even Scott has to resist punching most of them in the face. She flicks her hair over her shoulder and ignores every one of them while making fast friends with some of the most popular kids in school. 

The two of them start blocking each other out around the same time Lydia discovers that some of those boys might actually be worth her attention and Stiles discovers what his dick is for. Lydia builds a wall between them, impenetrable and unyielding. Stiles imagines a forcefield bending across his mind in that space where Lydia resides, so all of her thoughts bounce right back. It makes them both moody, clingy, as liable to curl up practically on top of each other as they are to scream at each other at the drop of a hat.

“If I have to listen to you wax poetic about the glory of Jackson’s ass one more time, I swear to God, I’m going to claw my eyes out,” Stiles snaps, wincing as their father glances up with a raised eyebrow.

“It’s a really spectacular ass,” Lydia sighs, not even a little embarrassed. She rests her chin on her hand, and the look in her eyes is absolutely wicked.

 _“He’s_ a really spectacular ass,” Stiles grumbles.

Lydia scowls. “Oh, like you’re any better. Don’t think I can’t hear you mooning over Danny. Never mind what you get up to when you tell Dad you’re going to bed. At nine o’clock. On a _Saturday.”_

Stiles reaches across the table, flicking her hard in the shoulder. He yelps as Lydia trods on his bare foot with her heel.

“Children,” John says, not bothering to look up from the stack of paperwork in front of his face. He glances longingly at the empty liquor cabinet across the room then shakes his head.

They’re stuck on completely different schedules at school, which does nothing to aid the separation anxiety. Lydia is placed on the honors track, Stiles shoved into mainstream classes that make him grit his teeth and muddle through, bored out of his skull. 

It’s not that Stiles isn’t smart - because he is, he totally is; all of his grades are just as good as his sister’s. He just can’t concentrate the way Lydia can, his thoughts zinging from one topic to the next at the speed of light. Or he concentrates too much, brain stuck on a single idea and unwilling to move on. Lydia diagnoses him with ADHD before the school psychologist does, rolls her eyes when the woman refers them to a pediatrician at the hospital, and starts rattling off the names of medications and side effects and contraindications until Stiles shoves a pillow in her face.

Lydia thinks mathematical theorems at him all day long, keeping him entertained while his English teacher drones on about Romeo and Juliet’s star-crossed love story. Her knowledge sparks in his brain, a blazing fire deep in his bones, settling his body better than Adderall ever could. 

_Romeo and Juliet is not a love story,_ Stiles writes on a sheet of paper in place of his notes, projecting the image back to Lydia. Scott makes a show of leaning across the aisle to look over his shoulder. _It’s a thirteen day romance between two infatuated idiots that caused six deaths._

Scott slaps Stiles hard in the arm. Stiles slaps him back. “Dude,” he hisses, “Romeo and Juliet is the most tragic romance _ever,_ what the hell?”

“Mr. Stilinski,” Mr. Matthews says, and Stiles winces dramatically. Lydia telegraphs her eye roll from her history class three floors down. “Mr. McCall. Care to share your thoughts with the rest of the class?”

Stiles launches into a rant about the perils of teenage infatuation that makes Lydia startle then beam with pride. 

_See, I listen when you talk sometimes,_ he thinks. Her laughter echoes back, warm and bright. 

High school is a completely different animal.

Through some miracle, Stiles and Scott make the lacrosse team, thus boosting their standing on the Beacon Hills High School social ladder at least a couple of rungs. Stiles knows it’s the only reason their presence is tolerated; that and saying anything to the contrary within Lydia’s range of hearing would mean immediate social ostracization.

The one time Matt Daehler suggests he and Scott sit at the loser’s table, Lydia arches one slim eyebrow and smiles before loudly asking how that rash is doing, “You know the one.” 

“Dude,” Matt says, while half of the lunchroom snickers, “Why is your sister such a bitch?”

“Why are _you_ such a dick?” Scott counters, and Lydia’s shock gives way to satisfaction and a fondness so deep, Stiles thinks he might burst with it.

Still, Lydia is Lydia, and she will not be patronized, not even by Scott _I am made of actual puppies and sunshine_ McCall. “I don’t need you to stick up for me,” she snaps; Scott shoots her an incredulous glance.

Jackson smirks, and Stiles grits his teeth when he puts a possessive arm around Lydia’s shoulder. He puts up with Jackson for his sister’s sake, but Stiles almost punches him in his stupid, smug face when he kisses her “for luck” before lacrosse practice. Jackson makes sure to stake his claim where the entire school can see.

“You can do so much better than Jackson Whittemore,” Stiles says, tossing his backpack to the floor. The sound of her filing her nails grates down his spine. He grits his teeth, annoyance simmering underneath his skin, pinballing between them as he throws himself onto her bed.

“You haven’t even _kissed_ anyone. I hardly think you’re qualified to give relationship advice.”

He folds his arms over his chest. “I just think maybe you should stop pretending to suck at everything just for his benefit.”

“Trust me. I do plenty of sucking _just_ for his benefit.” His brain is barrelled with images that no amount of bleach will ever be able to scrub out. Stiles gets to his feet with a yelp, slamming the connection shut as he scratches his fingers through his hair.

“Ew, ew, ewewew, I hate you, I hate you, I hate you,” Stiles says, hopping around the room with his hands clenched at his head. “I’m going to have nightmares starring Jackson’s dick, and I hate you.”

“No you don’t, sweetie.” Lydia pats him on the arm then goes back to painting her nails, and Stiles bites back the overwhelming urge to “accidentally” knock his hip into the edge of the desk.

He’s sitting in the middle of Chemistry when Lydia’s anger flares to life, white hot, all consuming. He jumps out of his seat and takes off running, Scott following close on his heels, yelling, “Stiles, wait!” Both of them ignore Harris calling them back to class, threatening detention and expulsion and God only knows what other punishment; Harris was a special kind of bastard.

Stiles skids into the parking lot just in time to see Lydia give Jackson a smile, the one that usually prefaces Stiles suffering in some creative and awful way he completely deserves. Then, she knees him in the balls. 

Stiles has to bite his fist so he doesn’t throw his arms in the air. Scott has no such compunction, doubling over and crying with laughter. Jackson is too busy writhing in pain to do anything other than whimper, and Stiles only bites back his laughter in deference to Lydia’s ire, the heartbreak that thrums down their bond.

Lydia grips his hand too tightly, keeping Stiles close as she tows him back towards the school with her head held high. She sighs when Scott starts gasping, grabs his shoulder and digs around in the pockets of his jeans. Scott yelps, trying and failing to squirm away.

“Hoodie,” Stiles says aloud, “Left hand pocket.” _You didn’t have to break up with him for me, you know._

Lydia hands Scott his inhaler, rolling her eyes. “I didn’t,” she says, tossing her hair over her shoulder, but her heartbeat stutters with the lie. Stiles reaches out, squeezes her fingers.

\--

On the anniversary of Claudia’s death, John pulls a double shift, as he does every year. He leaves a police-issue flashlight on the kitchen table, along with an arrangement of flowers and a note to call him if they need _anything._

Stiles and Lydia have a different sort of ritual. They spend the day gorging on popcorn and chocolate while watching black and white classic movies, all of their mother’s favorites. After dinner, Lydia grabs the flashlight while Stiles picks up the flowers, stumbling under the weight of them.

The cemetery technically closes at sundown, but Lydia takes the long way around, parking between the trees on the far side of the lot where no one could see them from the road. They’ve tried coming during the day, but the sunlight is always too bright, too many people trying to strike up a conversation or offer their condolences. Too many distractions when all they want is a few silent, peaceful moments alone with their mom. 

Stiles hitches the flowers up on his hip with a grunt, sending out a pulse of irritation that Lydia ignores.

A sound echoes through the woods at their back, making Stiles’ head snap up. Lydia throws out her arm before he stumbles. “Did you hear that?”

Lydia sighs, picking her way through the headstones with a frown. How she can navigate across the grass so easily wearing those heels, Stiles will never know, never wants to know. “Hear what?”

“I thought I heard a wolf howling.”

“There are no wolves in California, Stiles,” she says, patience wearing thin. Stiles bites his lip, holding back any further commentary.

Claudia’s grave rests at the base of a copse of trees, between two headstones for Charly Rebeck and Joshua Jones. Stiles places the flowers down on the ground and reaches for Lydia’s hand, winding their fingers tightly together. 

They don’t hide from each other, not today, not even when Lydia’s sorrow threatens to swallow him whole, when Stiles can’t quite bite back the sob hitching in his chest. He tugs her into his side, resting his chin on top of her head.

“Those flowers are going to be gone by morning,” Lydia whispers.

Stiles chuckles, wiping a hand across his eyes. “Probably.” 

They stay until the sun starts to rise, chasing away the chill that’s settled in Stiles’ bones. He keeps his arm wrapped around Lydia’s shoulders as they head towards the car with on stiff legs. Lydia shoves her hand in his pocket, trying to warm her fingers, and Stiles takes the opportunity to slip the car keys from her grasp. He holds them up with a grin, cackling as he dodges her attempt to slap the back of his head.

“If you crash my car, you’re buying me a new one,” she says, and Stiles lets out an indignant squawk. He spins to face her, arms flailing.

“I am an excellent driver. I have mad driving skills.”

“So, how did the Jeep get a dent in the bumper again?”

“Scott ran into it with his bike.” Stiles nods, shooting her a grin. “That is my story, and I’m sticking to it.” 

Lydia rolls her eyes. The early morning air still carries a chill, but she cranks down the windows and sticks her arm out, letting the wind pass through her fingers.

An image flashes behind his eyes, their mother pushing both of them on the swings and laughing, their father smiling at them from the other side of the fence. Lydia turns her face away, eyes overbright.

Stiles doesn’t look away from the road, but he reaches for her hand. “I’m not going anywhere,” he promises, wanting her to hear the words out loud.

Lydia takes a deep breath and offers him a smile. _I know,_ she thinks, squeezing his fingers.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to the wonderful [dream_mancer](http://archiveofourown.org/users/thatworldinverted/pseuds/thatworldinverted) and [thatworldinverted](http://archiveofourown.org/users/riverchic1998/pseuds/riverchic1998) for helping me wrangle this thing into shape. 
> 
> Written for my March entry of the [Teen Wolf Full Moon Challenge](http://tw-fullmoonchallenge.tumblr.com/). Title from "You Are Jeff" by Richard Siken.
> 
> Come hang out with me on [tumblr!](http://seaboundandaimless.tumblr.com/)


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